Wood," she continued, in an authoritative tone, seeing her husband ready to depart, "one word before you set out. "I was born in the South Seas and I am on my way to America, to an aunt. “Ruin me? Think of me with fondness? Are you dying of cancer or something?” He demanded. One or two of the tables were occupied by groups of fat frowzy women in flat caps, with rings on their thumbs, and baskets by their sides; and no one who had listened for a single moment to their coarse language and violent abuse of each other, would require to be told they were fish-wives from Billingsgate. The door into the passage offered itself with an irresistible invitation—the one alternative to a public, inexplicable passion of weeping.
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